‘… The situation is as old as the hills,’ Ruggero had said, sitting white-faced in the apartment. ‘It’s when it happens to you.’
In the end he decided not to show him. And yet how he yearned for someone in whom to confide. My mother. Maria. (Maria who had told him of Minicu … lost in the mountains. The overheard conversation. ‘A knowledge so terrible, Guy, that it has haunted me all my life – but most of all when something else happened, something so very very much worse, Guy, that I could never speak of it – to anyone.’) He had not asked her. Nor would he, ever. Yet in talking of Minicu, she had spoken of another world, one where life was little valued, where an inadvertent witness to an execution which didn’t concern him must be silenced. His body, if ever found, picked clean by vultures.
And it was this world with its rank smell, which was closing in on him.
I shall not tell Ruggero.
The letter, now locked in his desk, was typewritten and with no peculiarity except that on close examination the m key was fractionally warped. (Am I to examine all the typewriters in Palermo?)
This is a warning. Before the year ends you will be asked for a sum of money. Be prepared. It will not be more than you can afford. But it will not be less. Show this letter to no one. The writer, who speaks on behalf of another, wishes you well. But only if you cooperate. If when the time comes you do not, be warned. You may live to regret it. Others will not.
He felt little of the spirit of Christmas, only a week or so away now. The noise, the clatter, the market stalls laden with brightly coloured gifts, the knee-deep litter, the smells of herbs and spices, sizzling oil, the loud calling of wares. The huge and beautiful though often garish cribs, the monotonous wail of the Sicilian bagpipes. All these sights, sounds, smells filled him with terror. They were unreal – it was as if he were watching some play. Simulated festivities: these were players, playing at being merry.
His terror was the worse still for being so vague. The waiting, the not knowing, reminded him … When such fear before? Of course … waiting with Miller, and Randall, in the assault craft, waiting to go in at Salerno (not knowing the assailant’s face, who it was would shoot to kill. Jerry lying in wait for us …)
But that was only my own death, he thought. Fear for others, fear for loved ones, is that not the worst?
Early evening, and he was marking essays in his small study off the drawing-room. Laura had taken the girls to a Christmas party for the San Nicolò orphanage. He could scarcely concentrate. His gloom was such that when the bell rang, he saw it as a welcome interruption.
When he saw his visitor was Father Clemente, he felt a sudden lifting of the spirit. A face he was glad to see. Faint hope. No, not hope, for he could hardly (or could he?) confide in him. But for half an hour, an hour perhaps, to have his mind taken off his worries.
‘I promised I would call and lo, I find myself passing near you. I preach at an evening Mass at San Cipriano. Just time for a visit …’
‘Something to drink? A cognac?’
‘Please.’ Urbane, smiling, relaxed. Sitting opposite him in the drawing-room, on the green brocade chair with drawn thread antimacassar (elaborately worked many years ago by Amelita).
He asked after Laura and ‘your beautiful daughters’.
‘I expect to preach a retreat at their convent this Lent… Tell me – are you satisfied with their education?’
‘For the moment, yes. I expect, I think we may have other plans later –’
‘Out of Sicily, perhaps? Of course I envy you your English education. Your private education, it’s the best in the world. I speak sincerely. These English Catholic boys’ schools – they are a non pareil. The standard of the teaching, the care while boys board – we have nothing like that. The boys are with the priests perhaps ten or twelve weeks at a time. What a chance for good influences, for moulding … You have no son yet, Mr Dennison, but have you never been tempted to send your daughters abroad for this splendid education?’
‘I couldn’t spare them,’ Guy said. ‘I would miss them too much … I don’t share your high opinion of the system, to be truthful. A child should grow up with its parents –’
‘Ah, the orphan speaks. You were an orphan, were you not? Something you said once … You really knew nothing of your parents?’
Again the Tuscan tale. Aunt Eleanor. Uncle Basil …
‘What a worthy woman this Miss Dennison must have been.’ He twirled his glass in his well-manicured hands, laid it down on the marquetry table. He arranged the folds of his white habit.
‘While I am here, there is one matter I should like to discuss. A confidential matter … If I may?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you recently received – a letter?’
I could not tell Laura, would not tell Laura, he thought. Ruggero, no. But a priest – yes, perhaps? For it would seem obvious, from the way he has phrased it, that others have received them.
He looked at the charming frank smile, the white teeth, wanting to confide. He said:
‘Any particular sort of letter? I’m not sure that I follow –’
The priest smiled, spread his hands out.
‘A letter with certain – warnings.’
‘No.’ It was as if the word ‘warnings’ stirred something in him, akin to panic. How had this dreadful subject come up?
‘Think again,’ the priest said. ‘You are certain?’
Irritated suddenly, he repeated. ‘No. No.’ He rose. ‘Your glass –’
‘Not at this moment, thank you … Mr Dennison, I am only trying to help. But you must be frank with me.’
‘And if I had? What could you do?’
‘Give advice. Advise you …’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think you do.’
A sudden feeling of sickness. In the room there was a sweetish smell of stale cigarettes. Reaching for the box, he lit one, busying himself with testing the lighter. He did not offer one to Father Clemente.
‘I think you do … You have lived here eight, nine years. And are a man of great acuity … Mr Dennison, I have been sent here to tell you the terms – It causes me great distress – but I am not myself a free person. If I could tell you how I detest being the one who …’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t follow –’
‘Come, come. What I am trying to say … I think I have made myself clear, that I am only the messenger. Of Mammon, alas. Who amongst us would not rather be a messenger of God?’
Fragments of tobacco stuck to Guy’s lips. Nervously he flicked them away.
‘Certain matters were hinted at, were they not? I must tell you that the figure referred to is –’ he spread his hands ‘– let us say that twenty million would be perfectly acceptable.’
In shock, Guy wanted to say, ‘Take it. Take it, then. Take all we have, and go. But leave us in peace.’ He felt he was back, dry-mouthed, waiting in the Di Benedetto apartment for the telephone to ring. (’The situation is as old as the hills. It’s when it happens to you.’)
‘You must be mad. We don’t have that sort of money.’
‘No? Perhaps those who decide these matters are wrong? But I do not think so. These figures are not chosen at random. Please, think again. Make it safe for yourself. And for those you love … I must explain the terms. I would be wanting in charity if I did not. A time limit, there is a time within which … you understand?’
Guy didn’t speak.
‘Five days after Christmas …’
‘And if I don’t?’ (How can I ask such a question, when I dare not think it? dare not think – if not.)
Sitting there, trembling inside, he noticed the monk’s rosary. The rosary, a special devotion of the Dominicans. The utter incongruity of it all hit him. He heard again the jangling rosaries of the priests of St Boniface’s – all the religious he had ever known … from the ear-boxing Brother Damián to this smooth, smiling – ah, but how he smiles. (And I liked his smile once, noticed it that first
time met at the villa …)
In cold fury, he said, ‘It might be best, I think, simply to go to the appropriate authorities – if not the Consul here, then our Ambassador in Rome. Or contact the Foreign Office directly …’ But he knew, even as he said it, that it sounded like the bluster it was. Seeing in a flash the yards of red tape, the murmured evasions, the incredulity, the polite listening ear. And he could not expect action when he wanted it – this evening. (’Yes, yes, of course. We’ll arrange with the appropriate authorities for immediate arrest …’) It would not happen. And this country doesn’t work like that. They are all, the police and the policed, in it together.
And still the priest smiled. ‘Please, Mr Dennison. What folly – saintly folly perhaps, but folly …’ Without getting up, he turned his gaze towards the wall where a small group of paintings hung.
‘What a beautiful Caravaggio reproduction. It almost breathes.’
Guy said coldly, ‘A present from Miss Dennison.’
‘This English lady who adopted you? So it’s a precious possession, if not in money then in sentiment…’ He paused. ‘Your wife and your daughters, so lovely. Are they not even more precious? These are a man’s true possessions. Dearer to him than himself …’ He took up his glass of cognac, sipped it. ‘How terrible if one of them, out walking perhaps – were to meet, say, a runaway car. Perhaps a car that is out of control, mounting the pavement? If they were to meet with such a disgraceful, such an unhappy accident –’
He shouted, ‘And you call yourself a man of God?’
‘Please, Mr Dennison. So loud. Your servant …’
‘Man of God, you call yourself. You disgust me –’
‘I call myself nothing. A priest, yes … In the exercise of my office as a priest, God speaks through me. But here, you see, here I’m a different person … I, and my fellow scholars, we are ourselves victims … you would not like to hear.’
Suddenly smiling again, he rose. ‘Regretfully, I must leave you. My sermon at San Cipriano. I see already that it is after six … To finish this delicate matter. Perhaps you would like to be in touch as to the best method … No numbers to be taken of bank notes, of course …’
‘You are scum – that you wear the cloth only makes it more disgusting. There are other words, stronger words, I could not use them to a priest … My upbringing …’
‘I must thank you for your hospitality – I hope I may call again under happier circumstances. Sit with your wife and daughters …’
‘Please go.’
Just before he reached the door, Father Clemente stopped. He turned to Guy.
‘One piece of advice, Mr Dennison. Lock up your wife.’
Heart drumming, Guy said, ‘Is that a threat?’ Dear God. Jesus.
‘My dear Mr Dennison … No, it is simply advice. No more. Let her alter her way of life. It would please Christ. But till then – lock her up.’
As the priest moved forward, Guy stepped in front of him, barring the door.
‘Explain yourself.’
The priest smiled. ‘Please. Don’t act the innocent.’
‘Explain yourself, before I lift a hand against you –’
‘Come, come. You are a man of the world. Your wife – perhaps you have not realized she is a woman of the world?’ He paused before adding, ‘Count as your friends, Mr Dennison, only those your wife never meets … Look about you in the future.’
‘It would be beneath me to ask you what you know. I only ask you how you know … If it’s from the confessional –’
He held his hands up as if shocked. ‘I can only promise – the seal of the confessional … It is not from there I have my information. For the safeguarding of that, a priest would lay down his life –’
‘With the sort of stinking morals you have, why should a blasphemous act like that worry you?’
The feet of Father Clemente, white socks under the heavy leather sandals, were almost upon Guy’s. ‘And now, if you would allow me access. The door … Really I must go … I wish you all the happiest and holiest of Christmasses. May the Infant Jesus …’
‘Where are the girls?’
He did not know which was the worst, the revelations, or his fears. He trembled with rage and shock. Could hardly keep his voice steady as he said, ‘I don’t want them, either of them, to go out by themselves, for anything, at any time. Do you understand?’
‘But they never do.’
‘The Christmas streets are dangerous.’
‘Guy, I’m with them always … Someone is–’
‘And you too. Not alone. You …’ His voice, he could hear it cracking. Great breathy cracks. Broken, this is what it is to be broken.
‘How many times have you been unfaithful to me?’
Laura. This was Laura. Not even by a flicker betraying anything. (Except me, except me.) Impassive pale face, face on a coin that he had so loved – that I love so …
‘Do you want it in exact figures?’
Taken aback. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Some names will do.’
She lit a cigarette, in the ivory holder. Sitting opposite him, in dull red silk shirt, cream knife-pleated skirt.
‘Well – and who has been talking?’
‘A visiting priest.’
She sat very still.
‘One of the Dominicans. Father Clemente.’ ‘I told him nothing. If people want to gossip … then I wish them good luck.’
Laura. Laura, why, why, why?
‘Who. Tell me who,’ he said.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Perhaps it would amuse you to guess? You need amusing, the way you are, the mood you’re in tonight …’
‘Who. Tell me who.’
She was silent. He swore at her then. A flood of swearing. Everything he had ever heard in the barrack room. Scarcely one that she would understand. He disgusted himself.
Then more calmly, he repeated: ‘Tell me who –
She shrugged again. ‘Guy, only a fool asks –’
‘I am a fool. It’s you have made a fool of me. Tell me who –’
‘No one that I – we need be ashamed of. Various … Paolo. Paolo Anello …’
His churning stomach. A wave of nausea, and pure hate. Seeing those small white hands. Imagining those small white hands … He was shaking all over as if he would have a fit.
‘Please, control yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s foolish –’
‘Who else, who else? I need names –’
‘You need nothing … Paolo. And after a little while – oh, some time ago … Ruggero was one.’
He was silent.
‘What do you think I do all day?’ she said.
‘I know what you do. You give me accounts of your days. And at nights you’re with me. You sleep with me, every night.’
‘You think that means … You cannot be so simple.’
‘Yes, I do. I love you, and thought you loved me.’
‘Who is talking about love, Guy? I am a good wife to you. I have given you children. This tedious conversation isn’t about love.’
‘What is it about, then?’
‘That is for you to decide. I didn’t start it.’
He went on, wading through, thrashing about in this confused sea of pain. ‘Laura –
She said, ‘I don’t expect you to have been faithful. And you, you have foolish expectations. People in this life should not expect what they cannot reasonably hope for … Is it that you see yourself as so devastating, of such overwhelming desirability that no wife need look further –’
‘I don’t see myself, as you say –’
He was shouting. ‘Lower your voice,’ she said. ‘I don’t want Silvi or Titì … If they should hear … Children need protection.’
‘Cuckolding me – that’s your idea of giving protection, is it? Is it?’
She said almost wearily, ‘A few hours ago, everything was all right …’
‘Two hours ago I didn’t know I should be wearing the horns, that probably I’m the laughing-stock o
f our circle … But that’s nothing to me. It’s you. That you …’
She was silent, and he began shouting again.
‘When did all this start? What did I do? What have I not done? Tell me. Tell me.’
‘Guy. But I have always been like this.’
‘Always, always – what’s always mean?’
‘Since I knew what it was – how it was done. Some time –during the war some time. Before the invasion–’
‘Your parents?’ He trembled still.
‘Mamma never knew anything of anything. My father …’ her voice faltered for the first time. ‘He loved me. He loved me very much. For him, it was all right. He was my greatest friend. When he came back from the war, he … Yes, he knew what I did. It never came between us. It only brought us closer.’
‘Why did you never tell me? Why was I never told? It’s as if … it’s like talking to someone I’ve never met … Why was I never told?’
‘You never asked,’ she said. Then after a moment, she added, ‘Is that really the sort of thing a young girl confesses before marriage?’
A memory stirred. A puzzled realization.
‘In your fantasies, you forget something,’ he said. ‘You forget, I married a virgin.’
That first night, he thought, remembering, remembering. (And then – oh, but it was I taught you everything, everything.) He was in tears. Everything, he thought, that you now give to others.
‘You forget, I married a virgin.’
‘Did you?’
When he didn’t answer, she said, very calmly, ‘I would never have told you this. I tell you now only because you are so … because you trap me. Yes, I was a virgin, for our marriage. Money bought virginity in those days. I had an – operation. My father insisted on it, not long after he came back. How else could I have hoped for a husband? I was not to know … You were indeed a victim, Guy. It was a successful operation, of course. I was sewn up, by this surgeon.’
‘Too tightly,’ he said. Dear God, yes. Too tightly.
The Golden Lion Page 46
